


Taches de Rousseur

by Cicerothewriter



Category: Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: Comfort, Cuddling and Snuggling, Established Relationship, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-02
Updated: 2012-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-28 18:43:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/310999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cicerothewriter/pseuds/Cicerothewriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poirot does some investigation of his bedmate.  Hastings enjoys this a great deal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taches de Rousseur

**Author's Note:**

> Note 1: Admiration for Hugh Fraser's freckles brought about this story.
> 
> Note 2: I posted this as an apology for the deathfic. I needed cheering up, too.

I woke one night to the light press of lips on the back of my neck. I sighed softly as Poirot's lips then fell on a different spot.

"Mmm… what?" I murmured, shifting backwards so that I was closer to Poirot's body. His arms were around me; he felt warm, soft, and comfortable.

" _Rien du tout_ , _mon cher ami_. I merely am doing what I have long wished to do."

He continued to kiss my neck, every once in a great while offering a light nibble that made me melt against him.

"And what is that, love?" I asked, reaching one hand back so that I could stroke his hair in encouragement. I was unsure what he wished to achieve, but I was enjoying it greatly.

"Why… to explore these _taches de rousseur_ ," Poirot said in a matter-of-fact tone.

I spent a few moments in contemplation before I realized what Poirot meant. " _Tach_ \- freckles, do you mean?"

" _Mais oui_ ," Poirot replied.

"I didn't know that I had freckles on my neck," I replied.

"That is understandable," Poirot said. "Who looks at the back of their neck?" He pressed a kiss to my hair, and sighed softly.

I left Poirot to amuse himself until the chimes of the hallway clock told me how early it was. "What woke you, love?" I asked, resting my other hand over Poirot's on my chest.

"The cramp in my leg," Poirot admitted. "It woke me from a dream most pleasant."

"You should have woken me," I scolded him gently. "I could have assisted you."

"But you did assist me, _mon ami_. You provided the distraction from the pain."

"My neck provided assistance, you mean," I said, laughing softly.

"A lovely neck," he said, his amusement clear in his voice.

"Really, Poirot," I said, teasing him with mock sternness. I felt him smile against my shoulder.

I turned slowly, careful not to let any of the cold air into our cocoon of warm blankets. I needed no hot water bottle with Poirot in my bed because he radiated heat. I kissed him gently, moving my hand down to his thigh. "Here, love?" I asked, merely resting my hand over the scar.

The entire story was never made clear to me, but I knew that Poirot had been shot whilst escaping Brussels during the German army's invasion. Observation showed me that he had been shot twice. While the wounds had healed, they troubled him greatly, especially during bad weather or when he was troubled by a case.

He hummed softly at my touch, and hissed as I began to press the area more firmly. The muscles were knotted and tense, but I worked patiently, having done this for my friend many times. Soon the muscles were pliant and relaxed. Despite his earlier passion, after such an attack Poirot was in no shape to make love. I kissed him and coaxed him to return to sleep, and after watching him for any signs of another cramp, I saw that all was well.

I snuggled against him, resting my head against his neck, and joined him in sleep.


End file.
